Murphy's Law
by Twirl
Summary: Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. When Derek Reese kills a man, it opens up a new FBI case, connecting the old with the new, inviting danger into the Connor and Eppes household. A Numb3rs/Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles T:SCC Crossover
1. Prolouge

**MURPHY'S LAW: **_Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. _

_This is a _**Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (T:SCC) **_and a _**Numb3rs** _crossover fic. This will be a massive, multi-chapter story (hopefully) by the time this is done, so consider yourself warned. I am trying to write it so fans of either show can read and enjoy, but it will help if you at least have a rudimentary knowledge of both shows, because this becomes important. Constructive criticism is welcomed with open arms, as this is my first multi-chapter story. I have written one-shots in the past, though for neither of the fandoms I'm attempting to write in now. Thank you for taking the time to at least click on the title and get to this page, and I sincerely hope you enjoy reading. I also hope you enjoy enough to leave a review. _

**DISCLAIMER: **

**Numb3rs **_is created and owned by_ **CBS** _and relevant parties. _**Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (T:SCC) **_is owned by _**FOX** _and relevant affiliates. I, the author, make no claim that these franchises are owned by me, nor am I making any profit from this. This story is written using characters and universes from these two creations, and is meant only for fun. _

* * *

**PROLOGUE:**

Blood drenched hands swept over the counter, smearing the sterile white with a disgusting crimson red, knocking over the perfectly suburban drying rack in his haste to get to the prize.

A large butcher's knife with a smooth, sharp edge.

With a knife, it didn't matter that he couldn't feel his left arm past the blood oozing out of that shoulder. With a knife, it didn't matter that his attacker was much, much stronger and much, much, much more experienced than him. With a knife, it wouldn't matter that it was pure, unbridled anger versus a terrified man who wanted to live.

Because now the terrified man had a knife, and he was going to win.

A roar broke past stiff lips, bursting from a burning throat, his whole body protesting the effort it took to spin around and slice wildly at his attacker, who had gotten close, too close… The rugged man echoed his roar with one of his own, his filled not with effort but pain. The man doubled over, clenching his arm, blood now oozing past _his _dirty fingers, out of _his _tattooed arm.

Vengeance would be his.

A yell sounded now, sounding crazed to his own ears, swinging the knife high with the intent to bury it in the rugged man's shoulder, to see how much _he_ liked it. See how well _he _would fight with blood oozing out of _his_ shoulder. For once, the small, terrified man would have vict—

The knife never got there, never made it lower than an inch after his yell. His attacker was a better fighter, he had always known that, even before they'd started rolling around, staining someone's kitchen blood red. His attacker slammed his shoulder into a still tender stomach, knocking all the air out of strained lungs, and slamming a battered body against the cold, hard floor.

Pain shot up his nose, his cheek, his temple, his eye as he was hit, one, two, three… so many times that he lost count. He heard no screams of anger, no professions of hate. His attacker may have been angry beyond all sane reason, but he was a professional. He didn't have to tell the man whose face he was beating into a bloody pulp why he was doing it. The man already knew.

Then, all of a sudden, the pain stopped, cold air hit his new wounds and all the weight left his midsection. The man allowed himself one gasp to hope that it would end, that it was all over, before something very, very cold pressed hard against his bald head.

Terrified brown eyes met cold blue ones. There was warm liquid in his mouth, so much that he wasn't sure the words could break through. But they had to. They just had to. Because he didn't want to die, oh he didn't want to die...

"Derek, please—" He rasped, tears coming to his eyes. Please...

Derek didn't let him finish his plea. One bullet and one bullet only was trusted to the duty of turning healthy brain matter to mush. Then, Derek stood up straight, tucked his gun in his waist band, face blank. Just as calmly, as if he hadn't just murdered an individual in someone else's kitchen, Derek grabbed a white dish towel from it's rung on the stove and wrapped it around his right arm, before kicking the back door open and disappearing into the night.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: **

_That last episode of Numb3rs had me looking for Sarah Connor to pop up and start shooting people. It was, nevertheless, awesome. As was the most recent Terminator. That was what inspired me to post now, and to get my rear end in gear in regards to this story. So, without further ado, here is the first chapter of my incredibly geeky **Terminator: SCC x Numb3rs **crossover._

**DISCLAIMER: **

**Numb3rs **_is created and owned by_ **CBS** _and relevant parties. _**Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (T:SCC) **_is owned by _**FOX** _and relevant affiliates. I, the author, make no claim that these franchises are owned by me, nor am I making any profit from this. This story is written using characters and universes from these two creations, and is meant only for fun. _

_Lovingly beta'd by: chocolateluver14_

* * *

"What happened to you?"

Derek looked up from his arm at the voice, giving the teenage form of John Connor a nod before looking away again, pressing the makeshift ice pack (four quickly melting ice cubes and a white washcloth) harder against his arm. "Cut myself running," Derek lied easily, frowning at the cloth, trying to discern a slow in blood flow from what used to be a clean washcloth with only minimal feelings of regret toward Sarah's belongings.

Derek shifted in the hard wooden seat, eyes narrowing at what he could see of his left arm, attempting like hell to figure out what was fresh blood dripping, sinking into the white towel he'd laid out under him, and what was a product of the hastily melting ice cubes.

"Did your run also beat you up?"

Derek cursed silently. He had hoped it wasn't that noticeable. He hadn't really had time to get to a mirror since he'd been back, the only glance he'd gotten was in the rear-view… Damn. Guess he wouldn't be going out today after all. "It got a few punches in," Derek said calmly, looking up at John, who was leaning, arms-crossed, against the counter. "I wouldn't say it beat me up."

Derek stared into the young eyes of his commander, struggling as he always had to understand just what was running through the famed John Connor's mind. Finally John spoke, "Are you alright?" he asked, voice low, sounding much older than his sixteen years.

"Fine," Derek grunted, something inside his chest clenching in spite of himself at the fact that John Connor would inquire after his health, even if it was just the teenage version of him. Derek tore his eyes off the boy in man's shoes, and looked back down at his arm. 'Screw it,' he decided, pulling the washcloth off his arm, grimacing when the air hit an open wound. "Nothing some needle and thread won't fix," he continued, tossing the bloody cloth into the sink behind him, the ice making a sickening crunch as it hit someone's breakfast bowl, eyes scanning the dining room table for the needle he'd found in the often used first aid kit.

"Jeez, Derek," John hissed, shoes clinking on the floor as he moved forwards. "That's not what most people would call alright."

Derek couldn't help it. He let out a coarse chuckle, as his concerned nephew lowered himself into a chair across from him. "Remind me to tell you about some of the shit I've seen you tryin' to pull," he said, smiling as he picked up the needle. John, however, was not smiling, holding out his hand out expectantly for something. "What?" Derek asked in confusion, smile fading somewhat.

"Give me the needle," John ordered.

"What?" Derek chuckled, trying to find the joke. Finding nothing humorous in John's expression after a few moments of scrutiny, Derek insisted, "John, I'm fine. I can handle one little cut—"

"While sewing yourself up would be very badass, I highly doubt you'll even be able to thread the needle yourself with that arm," John interrupted, eyes never leaving Derek's face. "Let me help you. Please," he said, earnestness in his eyes.

If John had simply ordered him to hand over the needle, Derek might've refused, but the simple plea from his nephew tugged at his heartstrings long enough for him to drop the needle into John's outstretched palm. "Have at it, sir," Derek said, sliding his arm on the towel he'd laid down to protect Sarah's table closer to John.

There were three phases to John that Derek had picked up on. There was John Baum, a kid concerned with his social life, his homework, his needs, a wholly selfish individual that Derek avoided for fear of lashing out. Then, there was John Connor, the teenager, a scared kid with the weight of the world on his shoulders that Derek protected for the simple reason that he was his brother's son, the only link Derek had to Kyle. Then, there were glimpses of JOHN CONNOR, the legend, the commander that had sent Kyle to his death, the commander that had saved them all, who had the whole human race ready to die for him, the very man who had apparently made it his occupation of annoying the living shit out of Derek Reese in the future. Sometimes, it was hard for Derek to figure out just who he was talking to. Right now, his bets lay on the teenage boy, though he had been wrong before.

John threaded the needle without a word, biting and trying off the edge of the yellow thread, the only color Derek had been able to find. Derek was silent as John prepared, looking for any sign of hesitation in John's eyes. He found it when John touched his left arm, needle hovering just over the sluggishly bleeding gash.

"Don't hesitate," Derek said, unsure of when this had become a lesson in field medicine. "Far be it for me to criticize the technique of John Connor, but the best way to get through an unpleasant thing is to just do it."

"I don't want to hurt you," John said, voice raspy, eyes on the gash. "Did you numb it, or—"

"Don't think about that," Derek instructed. "I'm a big boy, John, and if you have to hurt me a little to help me, so be it." The veteran leaned forwards, indicating the tip of his wound with a finger spattered with dried blood. "Start there and stay small. You don't want to go too deep," he said, as gentle as he could make his gruff voice sound. Sarah had told him once that he couldn't do recon at a mall because, "you always look like you're ready to beat someone up." He had a retort on the tip of his tongue at the time, but his desire to live had outweighed his desire to protect his pride. Besides, there was probably some truth to that description.

No. Most definitely some truth there.

John inhaled, visibly steeling himself, then pressed the needle into Derek's forearm. Under the table, Derek clenched his fist to keep the pain off his face as John worked. After all his talk, it would not do for him to scare John off with just a little prick. After the initial penetration, John took up a rhythm, apprehension melting off his face.

"Good," Derek appraised softly, "I'm guessing this isn't your first time."

"Mom's got a habit of running headlong into danger." John muttered, eyes never leaving Derek's arm as he worked, "That means ripped clothes, and ripped skin." A soft sound, almost like a sigh, escaped the boy's lips. "I just have trouble getting started." From there, both men sunk into a comfortable silence, John working carefully to keep the stitches small and Derek's fist twitching every so often to keep the pain off his face.

"What happened to you?"

Derek looked up at the new voice, meeting Sarah's disapproving gaze. The warrior woman had her arms crossed over her chest, her face broadcasting her clear displeasure with the scene before her. Derek stared right back, trying his best not to glare. He had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to apologize for. She was not his commander, his mother or anyone who should be judging him, Sarah Connor or no. He had done nothing to expose them. There was no reason for Sarah to be looking at him like that.

It was John who answered his mother. "His run beat him up." John explained, not stopping his sewing now that he had a rhythm going.

"I wouldn't say beat me up." Derek said, careful to keep the smile off his face in Sarah's presence. Her glare told him that she wanted to discuss this. He was trying to send a message right back in his own glare, to tell him silently that frankly, he didn't give a fuck. "Got a few swings in at least."

"When did you get in?" she asked, glaring right back, unflinching.

"This morning," he said evenly, once again trying to send his message.

Derek didn't know how successful he was at getting through to Sarah, but she seemed to have the feeling that if they did get into it, that John shouldn't be in the room. "Don't you have to get to school or something, John?"

A sigh escaped the boy's lips as the needle froze, the point poking out of Derek's skin, mid-stroke. "It's Sunday, Mom," he said, looking up at a startled Sarah Connor. She was hiding it well, but Derek had long since learned to look for little cues in her face to determine emotions. A particular twitch of the eye could mean the difference between his next comment earning a rare smile or his sudden need to leave the room. Right now, it was telling Derek that Sarah had no earthly idea what day it was, which was something Derek could sympathize with. He'd thought it was Tuesday, himself.

"Why don't you just yell at him and get it over with?" John suggested, able to sound only mildly irritated.

The only thing that kept the smile off his face was the desire to continue his existence in the Baum household. But, since mother and son were busy boring holes into the others face, he allowed himself a small smirk and a half breaths worth of exhaled laughter. The two continued their stare off until Sarah sighed and turned her iron-glare on Derek. "What happened?" she demanded, no hint of emotion in her voice, though her feelings were pretty clearly etched into the lines of her face.

"Nothing you need to be concerned with, Sarah." Derek said easily, as the gentle tugging began again, clenching his fist under the table with the pull of the needle. And, as far as Derek was concerned, Sarah really had no reason to be distracting herself with this. It was all under control.

"You've got two stab wounds that I can see." Derek winced when the needle dug deep into his arm, way off target. He looked up at John instinctively as the boy looked up just as abruptly at him, eyes darting this way and that over his uncle's body, searching for more wounds. "A split lip, a swelling cheekbone, several more bruises with others hidden under your clothes, the makings of a black-eye and judging from your knuckles, I can guess that you also handed out quite the beating, rather than just receiving one." Derek took his eyes off his nephew, to glare up at Sarah, who wasn't finished. "Oh, and more importantly, the passenger window of the truck has been shot out. And this," Sarah paused, to pick up the green and white striped dish towel that was now soaked in the middle with his blood that had been residing in the sink, "Is not one of my hand towels."

"Who was it, Reese?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest with a finality that reminded Derek of his mother, who'd caught him sneaking sweets many times. Must have been a female thing. Like how she could determine the difference between two blood-stained white dishtowels in a glance. Seriously. They looked pretty identical to him.

"No one who'll be bothering us." Derek said, taking his eyes off Sarah, pinching the needle with two fingers, plucking it free from his new wound. The movement seemed to startle John out of his assessment, because he snatched it from him with a muttered, 'Sorry', and promptly returned to his stitching.

"You killed someone?" Sarah said slowly, obviously prying for something. Derek would imagine that her expression was a cross between exasperation and fury at this point, but he wasn't about to look up. If he looked up, it would insinuate that he actually cared what she thought, which was a profound negative. John paused for a fraction, giving Derek a half-glance, before continuing, as if he hadn't looked up at all. It was good to know that the kid was still half-way innocent.

"He would've killed us." Derek said, more to John than to Sarah. The kid paused again, needle frozen in mid-air, meeting Derek's eyes with ice blue ones. "It had to be done." Derek continued, no doubt in his mind or voice. The bastard had to die before he did any more damage. John had to understand that.

About the same time John gave a small nod and returned to binding the gash on his arm that had seemed much smaller before Sarah came in, did Sarah speak. "Not a Terminator?" Derek looked up at her, spotting the sheer confusion in her face a mile away. After all, the woman had never encountered someone who deserved to die like a metal, to his knowledge, which was wonderful for her. The woman didn't have to know the sheer pain a human being could render when they betrayed their own.

"He's was as bad as one." Derek said with finality, as John tied off his work. Derek's eyes flickered to Sarah, who looked more confused now than pissed off, which was an improvement, he guessed, if only slightly. One glance told him that John was done, so he stood up, the chair legs squeaking against the floor as he did so. "He got what he deserved." And, with that, Derek left Sarah and John in the kitchen, arm held against his chest.

After all, he would clean up later, once they had all left to do whatever it was that Sarah and John Connor did on a weekend. Derek really didn't give a shit what it was they did, as long as they did it far away from him. His whole body ached from a combination of the beating, the lack of sleep and now this round of questions from Sarah. There was only so much a man could take all at once. So, he was going to change the license plates, see what he could do about the window and pray to whatever God there was that he didn't rip his stitches open in the process. Then, he'd wipe the car clean, along with his gun and the kitchen, and then proceed to lay low for the rest of the day, which included a nice, long nap on the couch.

Pleased with his day's plan and not so pleased with the dull ache growing in his arm as the effects of the ice wore off, Derek Reese proceeded to the garage.

* * *

The mere sight of the beloved Craftsman surrounded by crime scene tape put an uncomfortable chill in Special Agent Don Eppes' bones.

Intellectually, he knew that nothing had happened to his family, or even really the house itself. From what he'd understood, his father had found a body (that wasn't Charlie, his father insisted) and had proceeded to flip out, (because it could very well have been either Charlie or Don, he went on to explain) so he'd called Don, partially to verify that it wasn't him, and partially for instructions. From the way his father spoke and kept on insisting that it wasn't Charlie, Don thought his father had been attacked. It was all Don could do to calmly extract the story from the panicked man, his yells causing all three of his present team members to crowd around him, and tell his father to call the police, then just as calmly drive to the Craftsman home without exceeding the speed limit by more than twenty-five. Don had actually been rather impressed with his restraint on hitting the lights and driving even faster, even though, again, he intellectually knew that neither his father nor Charlie was hurt, but all the intellectual knowledge in the world couldn't slow his racing heart or explain why the gas pedal of his SUV seemed glued to the ground, or why David squirmed in the seat uncomfortably every time Don got too close to the other cars on the highway.

But by the time Don skidded to the familiar curb, he discovered that, somehow, the LAPD had beaten him home.

"How the hell did they beat us here?" David wondered aloud, the pure confusion in his voice echoed in Don's mind as they ducked under the crime scene tape, David holding out his badge to the officer there. Don was far too distracted to do so himself, eyes already scanning his lawn, his brother's lawn that now had far too many people in uniform crawling all over it.

"I don't know," Don muttered, leaving the 'and I don't really care,' bit unsaid. He tried not to look at the Craftsman, instead surveying the mill of officers around his childhood home, looking for any sign of his father or a wayward curl indicating his brother. "David, do me a favor and find out just what's going on. I'm going to go find my…" Don's voice trailed off distractedly, already moving towards the two ambulances in his driveway. Perhaps that was where…

"Your father. I got it, Don," some cool part of his mind registered hearing.

On autopilot, Don bullied his way across the crime scene, (no it was his front lawn, where he'd played ball) to where he hoped his father was. With each step, the guilt weighted heavier and heavier on the senior agent's mind. Somehow, Don knew this had something to do with him. He'd brought the world into the Craftsman, brought his work home and hurt his family, his father who'd warned him against joining the FBI. His father-

"Donnie!"

Don snapped out of his reverie at the childhood nickname, catching the sight of something very blurry flying at him before he was enveloped in a frantic hug. "Dad?" He gasped, trying to return the affection despite the bone-crunching grasp he was in.

"Oh, Donnie…" His father... sobbed? Was his father… crying? "I thought… I thought…"

The strong Alan Eppes was shaking in his eldest's arms, something very like sobs wracking his frame. The weight of his father was almost too much for the senior agent to hold, but he bent his knees, opened his stance and let his father lean on him. "Dad, I'm right here, Dad, right here. It's okay, I'm okay. Just breathe," he muttered, trying to focus only on calming his father down, not the utterly strange sensation of a prolonged hug.

"I'm sorry, Donnie," his father sniffed, the grasp disappearing as Alan composed himself, pulling away from Don. It was plain to see that Alan had lost a few shades in his scare, but he was not crying. Don should have known better, his father never cried, not even at his mother's funeral. Even though Alan was no longer crushing him, Don kept his hand on his father's back, just in case. "But I thought it was you… You, or Charlie…" Alan reaffirmed, sniffing again.

"I know, Dad. It's okay," Don said, quickly, hoping to avert another panicked hug

"I mean, who else could it have been?" Alan said softly, in a tone of voice Don wished he would never hear again. He could still feel his father shaking under his hand, though Alan seemed to have recovered massively since he stopped hugging Don.

"It's okay, Dad. Just, sit down, okay? Sit down and breathe. Are you okay? Why are you over here?"

Don thought he'd spoken the words in a wholly rational, non-panicking way. Obviously, his intention did not come through in his voice, because the next words out of his father's mouth were, "I'm okay, Donnie, really. I'll be okay… I was just a little… I think the word they used was 'shock'," Alan continued. His father's words were rambling, drawn-out and more than a little strained, but he did sit down, which was a big step for the man.

Don placed himself between the hovering paramedic and his father, who looked so out of place sitting on the back of an ambulance that Don felt ready to spew chunks. Don swallowed it down, keeping his hand on his father's shoulder, the simple contact doing wonders for the senior agent's state of mind. "Just…" Don started, trailing off when he realized that he didn't really know what he was going to say. It was a strange feeling, standing amidst milling cops and crime scene tape with no idea what to do next. It was probably the sight of his father among them that was the culprit.

"Tell me what happened, everything." Don said, because it sounded like a more intelligent thing to do than to just stand there like an idiot and wait for his heart rate to come down.

His father inhaled shakily, running a hand through his short hair. Don didn't like how pale Alan was, nor did he like how cold Alan's hand was when he grabbed Don's, the one that had been pressing hard into his shoulder. Don squeezed back, not knowing what else to do other than to try and warm his father's hand with pressure, to try and make Alan calm. It had been his role when Mom was sick, a role he slipped back into with discomfort, but did so anyway. His father needed him to. "I came home with groceries…" Alan said, voice still far too shaky for Don's liking. But at least he was speaking in an almost normal tone of voice. That was a good sign.

"At what time?" Don prodded, trying to think like a fed, not like a son.

"Um… about eight." That sounded right. Only his father would go grocery shopping at eight a.m. Don nodded his head, fingers itching for something to take his emotion out on, be it the man who'd given his father such a fright or someone else. "The door was slightly ajar, but I just thought I didn't shut it right or something.

The fed and son merged into one in an instant. "Dad," he breathed, exasperated. "The killer could have still been in there, Dad—"

"Yes, I know, I know." Alan said, flipping his free hand in his son's direction, which did nothing to convince him that his father actually understood the words coming out of his mouth. "I, uh, dropped my bag when I saw the legs, that was all I could see, the legs…" Alan was speaking very quickly at this point, not that Don could blame him. "I couldn't breathe, Donnie, I couldn't, but somehow I got around enough to see that it wasn't you or Charlie, and… I called the cops."

His father probably would have said more, but, for the second time in less than five minutes, something slammed into him, two arms snaking around his shoulders to pull him into his second frantic hug of the day. Don jumped, surprised at both the hug and that his training didn't kick in and he didn't throw whoever it was against the side of the ambulance. Lucky thing too, that Don was so distracted.

"What the—" escaped his lips, turning as best he could. He caught sight of one black curl before his attacker pulled away, Charlie's eyes shining with relief. Don was, suffice it to say, rather confused. "Charlie?" he voiced, putting the hand that had been steadying his father on his brother's shoulder now, steadying Charlie, who looked like he needed it more than Alan.

"I-I got a call…" Charlie stuttered, swallowing visibly. "At my office. S-said Dad found a body and to get here right away…" Charlie was shaking under Don's hand, curls visibly bouncing on his head. "I thought it was you." Charlie explained, the relief on his face clearly replacing the emotion of fear from a moment ago.

"They—" Don's voice died, fury choking it. "Those bastard LAPD—"

"Don!"

Don shut his mouth, clamping the lid down on his fury at his father's rebuke. He supposed that if his father was himself enough to stop him from cursing, then everything was getting back to normal, or at least, as normal as it could be while his father sat in the back of an ambulance and his brother's home was decked out in crime scene tape. But of all the idiotic, hair-brained, half-intelligent, fucking… You don't call someone and tell them someone died in their house without telling them who it was! Everyone knew that!

"Don?" Don looked up, away from his brother, into David's concerned eyes. David stood on the edge of the lawn, not quite close enough to the Eppes to have a comfortable talking distance, but close enough to look uncomfortable with the whole situation. The way he was standing, shifting from foot to foot, looked like he was determining the benefits of fleeing or staying. He held his notepad in one hand, open to a specific page. His expression was carefully masked, though Don could clearly see worry etched into his features. Though for getting his attention by means other than hugging, David Sinclair earned serious points.

"Yeah, coming," Don said, turning back to his father first, "Dad, stay here. I'm going to go find out what's going on." Then, he turned to Charlie, clapping him on the shoulder. "Stay with Dad, okay?" Don waited until he got a nod from Charlie to move. Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough to slip past his father.

"Wait, you're not actually taking this case, are you?" Alan said, concern in every aspect of his being.

Don turned, the truth and a lie vying for life, meeting the concerned gazes of both his brother and father at once. "I at least want to know what's going on." Don said, half-lying and half telling the truth. "I'll be right back. You guys can stay at my place while this is cleared up," he said, now telling the truth, beginning to walk away before his father could object, "I'll see about getting stuff from the other parts of the house cleared so you guys can get some things!"

Once the ambulances were out of earshot, Don turned to David. "What do you know?" He demanded, able to concentrate now that his father was far behind him. Now that his father and brother were out of sight, he could blur the Craftsman from his mind, pretend he was on any other crime scene, anywhere else. Make this just a normal day.

"Caucasian male, shot to death," David started, details Don needed, but didn't really want to hear in conjunction with his childhood home. "So far, the guy's a John Doe, but the LAPD is working to identify him."

Don nodded dumbly along with David as they walked, unsure of where they were going. He wasn't really paying that much attention to where he was walking, just walking. He couldn't focus on what he was seeing, on the blood on the front steps or the rolled up crime scene tape left carelessly beside on of the bushes… He did look up, once, when he bumped into a very solid blond man, whose reaction to his sorry was about as meaningful as Don's apology.

"It's pretty obvious the guy was in a fight, bruises and broken bones, not to mention defensive wound on his arms. His knuckles are split too, which leads me to believe he was dishing out something too. He's got a gunshot wound, a through and through, the cops are looking to find the bullet, but no luck yet. Got some pretty noticeable tattoos and old injuries, so cops are looking to run that too." They had stopped walking sometime in-between Don bumping into the very, very solid man and the end of David's thorough report. David was looking at him expectantly, ready for orders, ready for action. Don was right there with him, he was ready for action. But there wasn't a case for him to throw himself into at the moment… Or was there?

"These cops have so far proven themselves incompetent," Don said, not really caring to keep his voice down. Let the cops try and make something of it, Don was ready for a fight. "They called my brother and told him that my father found a dead body and to come right away." Don shook his head in disgust, glaring at the nearest uniform, which happened to be a small brunette who shrunk under his gaze. As she fled, Don's eyes snapped back to David. "I don't give two shits about protocol right now," Don continued, able to tell from David's expression that the man was on board before Don could even utter what it was that he wanted.

"I want this case."

* * *

Analyzing. Identified. John Wade, age forty-six, A-positive blood type. Mission Priority. Status: Deceased. Mission: FAILED. Determining next course of action.

Scanning.

Identifying blood spatter. Two sources. One source known: John Wade. Other source: Unknown. Male, type AB. Processing.

Sound. Source, human female, .34 meters away. Identifying tactic: Intimidation. Threat Level: Minimal. Identifying sound: "Who the hell are you?This is a crime scene. What are you doing here? You need to step back, sir. Now."

Meaning identified. Scanning through possible responses.

Analyzing new information. New mission found. Identify and terminate John Wade's killer. Identifying most efficient route. Most efficient route found: Use FBI to find John Wade's killer and eliminate threat to mission security. Then complete mission.

Response found. Automating facial movement. Automating speech processors: "Okay."

Automating leg movement, destination: the Federal Bureau of Investigation Building in L.A.


	3. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: **

**Numb3rs **_is created and owned by_ **CBS** _and relevant parties. _**Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (T:SCC) **_is owned by _**FOX** _and relevant affiliates. I, the author, make no claim that these franchises are owned by me, nor am I making any profit from this. This story is written using characters and universes from these two creations, and is meant only for fun. _

_Lovingly beta'd by: chocolateluver14_

* * *

When Don had gotten a hold of the LAPD detective in charge of the case, something that had taken far too long and had grated on Don's already frayed nerves, the man had all but shoved the case files at him before Don could get anything out but his name. "Have fun," the man said, looking relieved, as Don took the files before the balding detective could change his mind. There were two files in the stack given to Don, one that had been started in the morning, and a thicker one that held pictures, evidence logs, and handwritten notes spanning back at least twenty-four years. The legend on the title page simply read, "SARAH CONNOR."

It was Colby who dug up the rumor that the case file was haunted, bestowing that little gem on Don before he went into his higher-ups office to grovel for actual permission to work the case. All everyone else really knew was that the LAPD didn't want it, and the rest of the FBI refused to touch it, and everyone in-between viewed it as a career ending move. Even Nikki Betancourt was willing to admit that the LAPD was superstitious, but the thing that bothered Don was the mere fact that his colleagues would let a case this big go cold when there was fresh evidence to be processed, leads to follow, bad guys to put away. He didn't see himself as particularly idealistic, but someone had been killed, never mind the fact that the someone had met their end in his brother's living room. That someone had a family, or someone that had to care that he was dead. And Don wasn't going to let someone get away with murder just because the FBI and LAPD were too busy clinging to their lucky rabbit's feet or horseshoes or some shit to do their jobs properly.

On a less idealistic note, it just meant that there were that many less heads to roll in order to get this case turned over to him. He had only barely been able to get out the words, "I want this case" before it was unceremoniously dropped into his lap without so much as a, "Oh, you have personal ties to this case, maybe you should stand back and let unbiased agents take care of this." Don supposed it was a plus side to having superstitious colleagues. He got to investigate who killed someone in his family's, his brother's home because the case was quote-unquote, haunted.

Don was deciding between feeling a sense of accomplishment at actually getting the case and a feeling of shame in his fellows when he entered the briefing room, giving his assembled team a half-nod of greeting before jumping right into it, "What are we looking at?"

"The guy is still a John Doe," Colby said, picking it up right off the bat, sitting in what had been unofficially dubbed his chair, across the room. "Still running his prints and DNA through every database we can think of, but nothing yet. Evidence guys are still doing their thing in the, uh, in the kitchen and living room, but there really isn't much," Colby said, clearing his throat awkwardly in the middle, clearly as werided out with his boss's childhood home being a crime scene as Don was.

Don nodded as Colby finished, turning his attention to David when he picked it up, "As far as we can tell, he was in a fight with someone roughly around his size, maybe bigger." David said, stating the obvious. "Now, cops found the victims car, a stolen Chevy at a stoplight, just around the corner of your house." David clicked a tiny pointer, and Don saw the street corner, the one his mother used to turn on to take him to Little League. "And next to it, they found shards of glass from a passenger window of another vehicle. The evidence guys said they'd try to work their magic on it, but it's clear to me that our killer saw our John Doe here, at this light."

"Alright, so we pull video surveillance from the light," Don said, knowing his team would have found this course of action already, but speaking it just to have something to do, rather than being the passive audience. Sometimes, he hated being the boss. It put a thrill in the blood to research, find new leads, and finally know that all your work put some asshole behind bars. Playing the boss meant he got to partake in that only after he groveled to the higher-ups.

"Already on it," David nodded, confirming Don's suspicions.

Alright, so that exhausted, for now anyway, time to move to what had happened in his brother's home. So, since they knew who neither man was, there wasn't too much else they could do with that information. So, that left the other file the detective had given him. "What did you dig up on the Connor file?"

Judging from the way that Colby and David glanced at each other and how Nikki looked down at a stack of papers and began to nonchalantly flip through them, this was going to be a long one. He dropped into the rolling chair that was unofficially reserved as "the boss' chair" and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for someone to start speaking.

It was David who, evidently, drew the short straw.

"Okay, so first and foremost, all this happened on the basis of the words of one man," David said, pointing the small clicker at the screen, clicking once to reveal what looked like a mug shot of an underfed, unshaved and dirty man, the name on the card reading, KYLE REESE. "So, this guy, one Kyle Reese, claims to have come back in time from 2029, sent back in time by his commander, a man he called John Connor. Now, he claims that he has come back from the future where they fight some kind of cyborgs, bent on destroying the human race," David explained, glancing at Don periodically through his report, as if he were a student looking for disapproval from the teacher. Don didn't really see anything strange about this so far. Really, there were thousands of crackpots in the world, with millions of crackpot theories about how the world was going to end. Robots from the future really wasn't that original. Don was pretty sure Hollywood had made at least a good dozen movies on the subject. Crackpot theories were no reason for agents to refuse to touch a case, nor any reason for David to look like a kid with his hand stuck in the cookie jar.

"Now, this was back in May of '84," Colby jumped in, looking a little more composed than David. Maybe Don was just reading too far into David's expression, but it had looked to Don that the hardened FBI agent David Sinclair was a little shaken by what he'd read. Colby, however, was cool as he normally was. "Kyle Reese claimed he'd come back in time to protect John's mother, a woman named Sarah Connor," David clicked the remote and a picture of a pretty blond woman with big eighties hair, hugging on some man who looked like he belonged in the cast of Grease. "According to Reese, this woman was the sole reason that the human resistance survived in the future. Apparently, this John Connor is their military Jesus or something."

"And there was a basis for his claim to needing to protect her," Nikki jumped in, from her spot, sitting on the table. "The police were looking for Sarah Connor, because there were two murders earlier that day, both named Sarah Connor." When David clicked, two more pictures popped up, one of a grandmother-y looking lady and the other a young girl, "Now, Kyle Reese beat them to Sarah Connor. She was picked up in his custody, and he told police that he was sent back to protect Connor's mother from a Terminator, a robot the robot in charge sent back to kill her before John was ever born."

Don ran a rough hand over his face. "Of course he was," he said through clenched teeth and a barely suppressed groan, frowning at his team. Of course, crackpot theories were crackpot theories, but… this felt off, somehow.

Nikki and Colby glanced at each other, and David opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then shut it, getting up from his seat and moving to the computer. Don's eyes followed him as he typed, a small back picture popping up on the screen.

The mouse hovered over the image, clicking the black play button. The sheer effort it had taken to convert this piece of shit video from the eighties into pixels was enough to make the picture nearly indeterminable when people were moving, but Don easily identified Kyle Reese, sitting on one side of the interrogation table. Even through the pixels, Don was able to see that Reese was glaring daggers into the camera and whoever was operating it.

_"So you're a soldier. Fighting for whom?" _A voice said, off camera.

Reese looked like he would have punched the first speaker, if he were able to._ "With the 1 32nd under Perry. From '21 to '27."  
_

_"That's the year 2027?" The first voice asked._

_"That's right. Then I was assigned under John Connor."_

_"Who was the enemy?"_

_"A computer defense system built for SAC-NORAD by Cyberdyne Systems."_ Reese said, pure conviction in his voice.

_"I see." _The first voice said, a different kind of conviction in his voice._ "And this computer thinks it can win by killing the mother of its enemy. Killing him, in effect, before he's even conceived. A sort of retroactive abortion?"_ There was a skip, a glitch in either the tape or the conversion. Either way, it skipped right over Reese's answer, the first man continuing talking._ "Why didn't the computer just kill Connor then? Why this elaborate scheme with the Terminator?"_

_"It had no choice. Their defense grid was smashed. We'd won. Taking out Connor then would make no difference. Skynet had to wipe out his entire existence." There was a note of pride in Reese's voice, easily identifiable even through the shoddy technology._

_"Is that when you captured the lab complex and found... What is it called?" _There was a pause as the man cleared his throat_. "The time displacement equipment?"_

_"That's right. The Terminator had already gone through. Connor sent me to intercept and they blew the whole place." T_here was resignation in the man's voice now.

_"Well, how are you supposed to get back?"_

_"I can't." _That would explain the earlier resignation._ "Nobody goes home. Nobody else comes through. It's just him and me. It's just him and me."_

_"Why didn't you bring any weapons? Something more advanced. Don't you have ray guns?"_

_"Ray guns."_ Now Reese was laughing, if only slightly_._

_"Show me a piece of future technology."_

_"You go naked. Something about the field generated by a living organism. Nothing dead will go." _Don was slightly impressed in spite of himself. That covered a major flaw in the crackpot theory._ "I didn't build the fucking thing." _Reese said, arms out in frustration.

_"OK, OK. But this cyborg, if it's metal... ?"_

_" Surrounded by living tissue."_

_"Oh, right."_ The first man said, almost sounding giddy. Don would bet good money that the guy was a psychologist of some kind, just waiting to make a career out of this guy.

_"Why were the other women killed?" The first man said, voicing one of Don's first questions._

_"Records were lost in the war. Skynet knew almost nothing about Connor's mother. Her full name, where she lived. They just knew the city. The Terminator was just being systematic."_

_" Let's go back..." The first man said, obviously trying to steer the conversation in a direction that would lead further into the delusion._

_"Look, you have heard enough. I have answered your questions." _Reese sounded angry now._ "I have to see Sarah Connor."_

_"I'm afraid that's not up to me."_

_"Then why am I talking to you?" _Reese wanted to know, standing up._ "Who is in authority here?"_

_" Please..."  
_

_"Shut up!"_ Reese yelled, as two officers took hold of his arms, growing hysterical in his anger_. "You still don't get it, do you? He'll find her. That's what he does. That's all he does. You can't stop him. He'll reach down her throat and pull her fucking heart out! Let go of me!"  
_  
The video cut off there, and Don was met with three pairs of eyes staring at him.

"So, according to this guy, the person who killed the other Sarah Connors was really a machine from the future?" Don asked, not quite liking how the words sounded coming out of his mouth.

He was met with a nod from Colby. "And, later that night, some stranger busts into the station and kills seventeen officers," Colby said, taking possession of the remote and clicking it, bringing up a picture of a macho European-looking body-builder in a leather coat and shades. "Reese and Connor leave the police station, and as far as the police report is concerned, Reese shoots up a truck, then a warehouse, is shot dead by Sarah Connor in self-defense and then cremated while Sarah Connor leaves L.A."

There were so many holes in that, Don wasn't sure which one he should question first. So, he didn't decide. "Wait, what?" He asked simply, hoping he wasn't the only one who was completely lost.

"Yeah, that was my feeling." David said, sitting back down on the table, across from Colby. "As far as we can tell, there is no trace of this guy who shot up the police station nor is there any trace of Reese's so-called Terminator. Sarah Connor is on record claiming that a machine killed Reese, but it was marked down as post traumatic stress." David paused for a breath, then let it out in a sigh. "And here's where it starts getting really strange."

"What the hell was what you just told me if not strange?" he wanted to know, beginning to get a sinking suspicion as to why this case was avoided. They were just going in fucking circles.

Nikki looked at David, the hope that David would answer the boss' question clear in her features. David sighed, scratching the top of his bald head. "In 994, Sarah Conner was put in a mental hospital, uh, Pescadero," David said, after giving the open file a quick glance. "Her son, John, was put in foster care." David continued, clicking the remote again, and this time, two pictures popped up. This time, it was a mug shot of Sarah Conner, now a brunette, looking blankly at the camera. The other picture was a boy of maybe ten or eleven, looking uncomfortable in what was obviously a staged picture for a school of some sort.

"So, she had a kid, named and named him John Connor," Don repeated, eyes focusing on the picture of the boy. He looked like any other kid to Don, not that Don had seen too many kids in his time. He had his blond hair cut in a military fashion, and his clothes hung on him like they were meant for someone a couple of sizes bigger. "And why was Sarah Connor committed?" _'Besides the obvious reasons,'_ was left unsaid.

"Uh…" Nikki said, flipping a page in her open file. "For blowing up a computer factory."

Don couldn't stop the sharp snort that escaped him at that little detail. "So, that coupled with the fact that she named her son John means she bought Reese's bull hook, line and sinker."

"Yeah," Colby agreed, dragging out the sound, taking the time to rub his eye with the heel of his eye before continuing. "Three years later, there's a shooting at a local mall. Video footage identifies John Connor in the middle of it. They also identified the same man who attacked John Connor as the one who shot up the police station twelve years prior." A picture popped up, identical to the one already there, but this one with a different time stamp on it. Don frowned, leaning forwards in his chair. "The file on this one is even more wrecked than the original. From what I can gather, the guy and the kid busted Sarah Connor out of a insane asylum. Then, the group of them kidnap Miles Dyson, a computer developer at Cyberdine Systems, blow up the floor he works on with all his work along with it."

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Don said, running a hand over his head, hoping that it would quell his spinning head. "So this guy, Reese, feeds this girl, Sarah Connor, some bullshit, and this crackpot theory from '85 is somehow connected to the dead guy in my brother's living room?"

Nikki nodded, "But it gets stranger, boss."

"How?" Don heard himself ask, even though he was sure he didn't want to know.

"Well, the Connors are in and out of view for the next few years, and in 1999, there is a shooting at a high school in Red Valley, New Mexico. There is a John Reese enrolled." There was another click from somewhere in the room, and up popped another picture, this time of a teenage John Connor. So, if Don had been doing his math right, the kid would be about fourteen or fifteen when this picture was taken. Don was a better gauge of ages when kids had passed the twenty-year marker, but he was at least somewhat sure of his guess. "Now, somehow, the Connors ended up at the Security Trust of Los Angeles," Nikki continued. "But now, they've picked up this girl."

Another click, another picture flashed on the large television screen. Don found himself leaning forwards in his chair, frowning at it. Sure, the Connors were there, they were easily recognizable. But now, a girl who looked no older than John, probably weighing less than a hundred pounds wet, stood before them, threatening some teller with a gun. Don didn't need Megan's fancy-shmancy behaviorist training to be able to infer that, from the way both Sarah and John Connor looked at her, she had taken control of the situation.

"As far as we can tell, she was a student enrolled in the same school as Connor, one Cameron Phillips," Colby said, as Don studied the girl. "But the file has eyewitness reports that said she was a casualty in the school shooting." Colby sighed, "But, then again, there are eyewitness reports in here that say the shooter was a substitute teacher with a metal leg."

Don glanced at Colby, searching for any sign of a joke on the man's features. Although he found none, Don still couldn't shake the feeling that he was being jerked around by someone. And he hated being jerked around.

"There is a reported explosion in the bank, which destroyed the safety deposit vault," Nikki said. "It is reported that all three of them were killed in the blast. The blast also knocked out all the video tapes, some kind of unexplained electromagnetic interference."

"Electromagnetic interference?" Don repeated, just to make sure he heard that right.

Nikki nodded. "Now, look at this, boss." At her nod, David clicked the pointer again, and what looked like a video clip popped up on screen. Don could easily pick out a naked John and Sarah Connor, along with this Cameron girl, even through the pixilated cell phone video. There was a newscaster prattling on about streakers or something, but Don wasn't really paying attention to that. His eyes first found the pure terror in the two faces of the Connors, like they had no idea where they were. Then, his eyes found the time stamp.

September. 2007.

They… That couldn't be right. Maybe they had all aged remarkably well. Maybe the stamp was wrong. Maybe… Don tore his eyes away from the screen to his team, searching for the big joke once more. David was very pointedly looking anywhere but Don, Colby was staring solemn-faced right back and Nikki busied herself with her notes once again. So, the impossible was somehow true. But it was impossible. You couldn't just go from 1995 to 2007 and look the same! "Is the time stamp wrong?"

One focused pair of eyes and two unfocused told him, yes, the stamp was correct.

"The Connors and the girl were presumed dead until this video was sold to a local news station," Colby said, as the bravest of Don's team. "That's where the trail picks back up." There was silence for a moment, silence that told Don that someone else was supposed to have jumped in, but had left it to Colby. Maybe his initial assessment was wrong. Maybe it had been Colby, and not David, who'd drawn the short straw.

"Uh…" Colby said, glancing down at the file he had open before him, flipping two pages hurriedly before finding the one he was looking for. "On September 15, '07, Enrique Salceda, an FBI informant was murdered." Colby said, without pretense. "He had made a call to one Agent James Ellison, telling him… something." Colby mumbled, squinting at the words. Finally, Colby sighed, looking up at Don. "As far as I can tell, Ellison thought the man had seen Sarah Connor before he was shot."

Don had many questions, and would have asked him if he hadn't sworn to keep silent until the briefing was over.

"There was some odd blood found at the scene." David said, saving his partner from having to continue. "Lab techs couldn't do a thing with it except tell that it was synthetic. Now, the same blood was found at another murder scene, where three John Doe's were found shot to death. Now, they all had the same kind of tattoos, so the detectives were thinking gang-related." There was no picture this time. Don was struck with the feeling that his team was about as happy as he was with this… horse-shit. Under the confusion, festering quickly in the pit of his stomach was pure rage, the beginnings of a personal vendetta to make whoever put this goddamn case together's life a living hell. "They were bar-codes, burned into the arm."

After a moment of silence, Nikki spoke up. "Kyle Reese had the same tattoo."

Don had heard enough.

"So, what the hell does the Connor case have to do with our dead guy?" Don asked, sincerely hoping—no, praying that the detective had slipped the case in there on accident, or as a joke, or anything else than this crackpot-this shithole of an investigation had to do with his own. Don wasn't about to admit that his colleagues were right to avoid it, but he was certainly beginning to sympathize.

"Both Kyle Reese and the guys at the safe house shared the same tattoos," David said, clicking again, bringing up two side-by-side comparisons of four male arms, the mug shot over each. It looked like a prison tat to Don, but one he wasn't familiar with. It was a bar code, with simple numbers underneath. Come to think of it, they looked more like burns than actual tattoos… Wait a second.

Don couldn't stop the groan that passed his lips. "Please tell me that the dead guy doesn't have the same tattoo."

"Afraid so," David confirmed, clicking once again, the sound sending waves of dread through Don Eppes's body. There, sure enough, was a fifth picture. The comparison was impossible to miss. The guy had the same goddamn tat, no denying. Which meant that Don, plus the three pairs of eyes staring at him, would have to wade through this shit to get to some actual semblance of an investigation.

"Alright." Don sighed, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. He let it drop heavily, leaning forwards in his chair as he settled into work mode. "Let's get to work. First things first, though."

Don was barely able to keep his voice somewhat civil, "Who the hell put this case together?"

* * *

He neither understood the practicality or the need for license plates. In fact, he was quite convinced they existed only to torment him. Derek Reese had managed to wrestle the original, now tainted, plate off with only one working arm. He was eternally grateful that the fucker had sliced his left arm and not his dominant right one, but that didn't make it any easier. Now, he'd positioned himself under the car, legs braced against something he hoped to holy hell wouldn't snap off on him, as he tried to wrestle the new plate in without killing himself. Stupid license plates. Stupid pre-Judgment Day laws. Stupid goddamn-

"What happened to you?"

A sound somewhere between a snarl and a sigh broke past Derek Reese's lips, having to resist the urge to slam his fist against the front bumper in sheer frustration that the owner of the voice had found him at all. Derek did prop himself up on one elbow and glared at the thing blocking the doorway. "Good." Derek snarled at the metal, hand automatically clenching around the screwdriver like he was going to stab her—it with the dull object, as if it might make a difference. "Now that everyone in the house has asked me that, maybe I can finally get some peace."

If it were Sarah, or John, or anyone else on this Earth, Derek would have laid back down, ignoring the intrusion in favor of getting some work done. But this wasn't anyone. This was John's pet, a damn metal bitch, good to only act as cannon-fodder, something that was now moving towards him, finality ringing in each of its heavy steps. Derek had to force himself not to move as she came forwards, cursing himself, partially for trapping himself under the car, but mostly for leaving his gun in the toolbox, which was unhelpfully out of reach. Derek said nothing, hairs standing up on the back of his neck at their proximity, glaring right back into cold blue eyes.

"What happened to you?" It repeated, cocking its head to the side in an imitation of emotion.

He couldn't stay there any longer, laying on the floor while it stood over him. "You know, I heard you," he said, using the hood to push himself up, screwdriver still in hand. He did his best not to wince when he scrapped his arm against the grill, grateful he had wrapped it carefully with bandages stolen from the First Aid kit in the back of the truck. Sure, it was crude, but there was no way he was going to go back into the house until Sarah and John had left. And while it made him feel slightly less intimidated when it had to look up to see him, it didn't make him feel any safer. "I'm not deaf." He made no move to mask the hatred in his voice, like he attempted to do when John was around. Key word in that sentence was 'attempted'. John wanted it around? Fine. John wanted him to be civil? Fine. But there was no fucking way Derek would stop advocating her danger. Especially not now.

She—it cocked it's head to the other side, "You didn't answer," it intoned, emotionless.

"I was ignoring you," Derek explained, tossing the screwdriver in the toolbox, giving him a reason to retrieve his gun. He hesitated a moment before sliding it into its usual spot in the back of his jeans, eyes never leaving the metal. After all, if it killed him, maybe John would finally get rid of the thing.

"What happened to you?" it repeated again, now sounding a little frustrated.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," Derek said, crossing his arms across his chest, planting his feet in a fighting stance out of pure habit. If it were anyone else (or even anyone at all), Derek was sure his glare would have elicited some form of response. But, no. Nothing. Not a damn thing.

There was silence in the garage as Derek Reese and the metal had a staring contest, neither one daring to take their eyes off the other, even to blink. The metal, of course, had an advantage in never actually needing to blink, but Derek had inherited the infamous Reese stubbornness, and he'd be damned if he let a metal get to him.

"My business is the safety and security of John Connor," it said, eyes still focused mechanically on Derek. "If this endangers John Connor in any way, I will kill you."

He would've had to have been a naive idiot to have missed the blatant threat in that sentence, but, instead of cowering, paling or reacting like anyone else that John Baum might consider 'normal', Derek Reese simply leaned forwards, closer to the metal than he ever wanted to be, pure hatred flowing through his veins. "I know you will, you metal bitch," he snarled, trying to again elicit some kind of reaction from the triple eight.

Of course, there was none. It was a fucking machine, and only his time under the Baum roof could account for the delusion that he could intimidate a metal. She—**it** merely looked him up and down once, as if scanning for a threat, and turned and left the garage without so much as a backward glance or witty retort, leaving Derek glaring at the empty space she—**IT **had been occupying up until recently.

Derek let the anger burn inside him for a little while longer, allowing himself a few precious seconds to imagine what he'd do to it if he could. Oh, he'd melt that smug smirk off it's fucking face. But, try as he might to hold onto that feeling, the world caught back up to him. His head and arm hurt like hell, not to mention the side of his ribs that he didn't remember hurting before stung like nothing else. He needed some sleep, but there was no way he was going to get that while Sarah still fumed inside. He needed to wipe all traces of last night from himself and the car, which meant laying low until his injuries improved, then taking it somewhere to fix the window he had no idea what to do with and finishing—Fuckin' hell.

Derek snarled again, kicking the tire in a gesture he hoped would make him feel better but only succeeded in adding his toe to the list of things that hurt. Resigned to the newest and most unusual punishment he'd endured in a while, Derek picked up the other new plate, along with the screwdriver and moved to the front of the car, dragging his feet like he had when he was younger and didn't want to do chores.

Why the hell did cars have plates in the front and back?

* * *

Alan loved his boys and because he loved his boys, he firmly believed that they should have their own lives without his meddling. It wasn't his fault they both spent so much time at home, under his... But that wasn't the point. The point was, Alan tried to keep his nose out of his son's lives when they didn't explicitly ask for his advice. But he would be remiss, not to mention a failure as a father, if he didn't mention... this.

"Why does Don only have beer and three boxes of leftover takeout in his fridge?" Alan asked no one in particular, staring wide-eyed at some box of Chinese food that had something either leaking or growing out the side.

"It's Don!" Charlie called from somewhere. "Are you really surprised?"

Unsurprisingly, this did little to placate Alan.

"Well, at least we know why he comes over so much," Alan mumbled, shutting the fridge door, hearing that clink of beer bottles as it sealed. He didn't dare open the freezer, much less the pantry. There were some things in this world that Alan just didn't want to know.

Graciously, Don had offered his tiny apartment to his brother and father, since their home was now a crime scene. Alan still didn't know how he felt about that, past the crushing wave of relief that it had not been one of his boys that had been killed, or anyone they had any remote connection with. He could fret that a stranger died in his home when the shock died down.

Don't apartment was small, a fraction of the size of the Craftsman. Don had everything a bachelor's pad needed: a single bedroom, one bathroom and a kitchen linked to a living room, giving off the illusion of space. The walls were stark white, no pictures or paint upon them. The whole place gave off a cold, uncomfortable feeling, not Don at all. Partially noting that the place could use a woman's touch in a bad way, Alan at least was glad to know his son avoided the place. Maybe being a workaholic in this sense was a good thing.

Alan turned his back on the fridge, leaning against the island that separated the kitchen and living room. Charlie was sitting on the coffee table, amidst the contents of three boxes and was carefully unpacking a fourth. Alan didn't understand even a fraction of what was on those pages, but knew that every last one of them had been tortuously wrenched from the hands of his students after a full three months of work. Alan knew this because, as part of his laboratory hours, Charlie made him sort them. Charlie had even managed to convince the crime scene unit to let him have one blackboard of the many, which was now sitting happily in the corner, by the window.

"What, are you guys setting up a school in my living room?"

Alan looked up, finding both his eldest and Agent Granger in the entry way. Alan was a tad bit surprised he hadn't heard them come in, but brushed it off. He had, after all, already had a full day and it wasn't yet three in the afternoon. "Well, Charlie is," Alan said, giving a nod of greeting. "I've only got one bag."

The curly haired professor shot his father a half-hearted glare before busying himself with the papers again. Alan itched to reprimand the haphazard way Charlie threw the carefully organized stacks this way and that, but bit his tongue.

"Just wanted to check in on you guys, make sure your settled before getting back to work. Got a new case, and I might be home late, so thought I'd pop by now," Don said, eyes lingering on Charlie. The professor didn't even look up, mouth moving around words Alan didn't understand, a slight furrow in his brow. The furrow was slowly becoming reflected in Don's brow, which wasn't good.

"Yeah, we're fine." Alan assured his son, before he could get too worried about Charlie. Worrying, while a big brother job, fell primarily to the father. Besides, Don was working. He didn't need to be bothering himself over Charlie if there was nothing wrong. "I'd offer you something to eat, Colby," Alan said, turning his head to the man. The agent looked surprised at being addressed by his boss's father, but gave the tiniest smile of greeting. "But all Don's got in his fridge is beer and leftovers."

Don directed a dirty look at his father as Special Agent Colby chuckled softly. "I wouldn't mind some of that action," he said, the smile on his face still small. Alan didn't mind. It just showed that the man had some instincts of self preservation. As Don dug in his back pocket for something, Colby added, "Though, I am on the clock... And my boss is a little bit of a hard-ass..."

"A hard-ass with a loaded weapon," Don muttered under Charlie's chuckle, digging around in his wallet. Alan himself was smiling too. He always liked Colby... Kid knew when to talk, when to shut up and when to crack a joke. So good to know he wasn't actually a traitor.

"Aw, you wouldn't shoot me in front of your dad, would ya?" he asked, sending Alan a small smirk.

"Might." Don said, pulling out a bill. "Depends how annoying you are." Then, he held out the bill for his father to take. "Here's my contribution for groceries."

It was a five.

"When was the last time you bought groceries, Donny?" Alan scoffed, taking the bill anyway. A mixture of shock and confusion ran across Don's features, as Colby ducked his head to hide a smile that was plainly there anyway.

"How many groceries were you planning on buying?" Don asked, incredulous.

"Enough." When Don continued to look confused, Alan added, "There's three of us now, Donny."

"Well, I don't eat that much," Don started, but a well placed snort from Alan stopped him from continuing. "Look, just consider it a small contribution, okay? You are living in my apartment, after all."

"Right, Don." Alan mumbled, preoccupied with getting his coat now. Where had he-aha! Finding it draped over one of his son's bar stools, Alan managed to get one arm through before his eldest spoke up again.

"Dad, you aren't going now, are you?"

Frowning, Alan slid the other arm in, stuffing the bill in his pocket before demanding, "And why wouldn't I?" Don opened his mouth to speak, but Alan wasn't having any of it. "Donny, I am perfectly capable of buying groceries by myself. I'm not that old and senile yet."

Colby, obviously sensing an argument he didn't want to be involved in, cleared his throat before Don could speak. "Don, if we're going to talk to Ellison, we need to get going."

A sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh escaped his son's lips. Alan crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest, waiting to shoot down whatever protest Don could think up. The day his sons told him what to do... But Don merely ran his hand through his hair in a defeated manner, throwing one last glance at the still working Charlie before speaking. "Just be careful, okay, Dad?" Don threw over his shoulder as he and Colby turned to leave.

"Yeah, yeah..." Alan muttered, slipping on his coat. Then, he froze, something occurring to him. "This case you're working on," Don froze. "It wouldn't happen to have anything to do with what happened, would it?" The cessation of the shuffling of papers signified that Charlie was paying close attention. "Because I don't want you working that case, Donny."

Don turned slowly, a small half-smile on his face, "No, of course not."

"Donny..." Alan said, trying his best to make his voice low and dangerous. It didn't have the same venom that Margaret was able to find, but it was close enough.

"Dad," Don cut in. "I promise. It's not that case." Alan didn't quite buy it, and tried his best to convey that through a harsh look. Apparently, it got though. "Dad, we're just going to interview a former FBI agent with some information on a case. An _unrelated_ case." Don added, somewhat hastily. "It'll be perfectly safe, okay?"

Alan still didn't buy it, but he had nothing other than his gut feeling to call his son an outright liar. So, he simply sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah," He muttered, unsatisfied. "Perfectly safe."

* * *

**A/N:**

The main purpose of this chapter is to show just what Don and the team know and what they can use. Personally, it bugs the hell out of me, but it felt necessary. Things will pick up, promise. Thanks for reading, and thank you for the initial support. I hope the dryness of the first part didn't scare you off.


	4. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: **

**Numb3rs **_is created and owned by_ **CBS** _and relevant parties. _**Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (T:SCC) **_is owned by _**FOX** _and relevant affiliates. I, the author, make no claim that these franchises are owned by me, nor am I making any profit from this. This story is written using characters and universes from these two creations, and is meant only for fun. _

_Lovingly beta'd by: chocolateluver14_

* * *

"Are we sure we want to do this, Don?"

So, here it was. By Don's count, it had taken Colby thirty minutes in the car plus all the time spent in his apartment to work out what he was going to say, which was either due to lack of inspiration or fear of Don himself, either of which was good. Don bit back a sigh, sparing a glance at the uncharacteristically hesitant Colby Granger, before slamming his door shut anyway, with a finality that he hoped Colby didn't like. He could see Colby trying not to shift from foot to foot like a nervous schoolboy, holding onto the door of the SUV like a lifeline, looking anywhere but the house. It was very clear now that Colby had been the one to draw the short straw to tell Don what the team collectively thought of this case, which would explain the hesitant volunteer accompanying Don on this particular outing. Good for Don, bad for them.

"What do you mean?" Don asked, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose and glancing back over at his agent. "James Ellison worked the Connor case for years. If anyone's going to know anything solid about this delusion, it's him."

Colby shut his door slowly, not quite moving. "Yeah, but how are we sure this connects with our guy?" One glance over at Colby told Don that he knew how stupid that was to say without Don going into it, but he was going to anyway.

"Well, for one, he's got the same tattoo as Kyle Reese, who started this whole thing," Don said, moving away from the car, toward Ellison's home. After all, he was the boss and this was their case. He didn't take a vote on the other cases they got and this one wouldn't be any different. "For another, this guy is the one who connected everything. I'd like to speak with him about the case file."

"Yeah, but Don—" Colby started.

"What's your problem, Colby?" Don demanded, rounding on the younger agent. Of course, he already knew what Colby's problem was. Well he thought he did. Whatever it was, it didn't really matter to Don. "If this is some sort of personal issue for you, then I can go in alone."

"This guy lost twelve men to this case, not to mention his career and his marriage." Colby said, gesturing earnestly to the house. Don blinked, slightly taken aback. He'd been expecting a concern about reputation, about street cred or whatever it was that went through Colby's mind. Dammit, he should have known better. Colby was compassionate, he'd proven that time and time again. Don had just gotten so caught up in getting the ball rolling, that he'd forgotten to think ahead, especially when it came to problems his agents might find with the case. "Don't you think we should let it lie there? We've got the case file, Don."

"I want to talk to the man, Colby," Don snapped, aware that he was in the man's personal space. While a valid objection, it would just be one they would have to work around. "I don't care if he wants to talk about it or not. I'm going to explore every avenue to put a murderer behind bars where he belongs. Got a problem with that, Colby?"

Colby sighed, gesturing dejectedly for Don to go first. Don did so, taking the stairs two at a time, before Colby could come up with any other inane protests that might let a murderer go free. The senior agent rapped his knuckles against the wooden door in quick succession, the other hand digging for his badge.

There was a click as the deadbolt disengaged, and the door opened a fraction, just enough to reveal a bald black man, face set as if he were getting ready to do something unpleasant. He was a man of medium build, though intimidating nonetheless. A quick cursory glance told Don that he wore at least one gun, probably something akin to a service weapon. The man looked FBI, Don could have seen that a mile away. He wore nice shoes, a suit and tie, prim and proper to a T. There was real fear in his eyes, fear that Don wasn't sure he caused.

"James Ellison?" The bald had nodded once, almost reluctantly. There were three distinct beads of sweat on his forehead, shining in the light, looking ready to roll down his face at the slightest notice. "Don Eppes, FBI." Don held up his badge to prove this. "And this is Special Agent Granger."

As soon as Don revealed they were FBI, Ellison's face relaxed with an audible sigh. He opened his door wider, giving a small, warm smile. "Yes," He said, "How can I help you Agents?"

"We're investigating a homicide that we believe is connected to a case of yours," Colby started, as if he'd never had any qualms about talking to the man.

"The Connor case?" Ellison asked, voice serious, smile gone.

"How'd you know?" Don asked, instantly suspicious out of habit.

Ellison smiled, or tried to, a worn, tired smile of a worn, tired man. "Why else would the FBI be knocking at my door?" He opened his door fully, gesturing for the two agents to enter. "Please, come in."

Don gave Colby a glance before doing so, stepping into a plain hallway, various pictures and memorabilia on the walls, but that was all he really noticed about the inside of Ellison's home. He looked back at Ellison as Colby stepped around him, noting how quick he was to shut the door once they were inside. Now that they were inside, it was game time. It was a game Don knew well, a game he could only hope that Colby would still be willing to play despite his personal issues. A game which involved Don watching Ellison's every move like a hawk and trusting Colby to watch their surroundings.

"You must excuse me, Agents, but I will have to keep this brief. I came home to change, and I'll need to head back to work soon." Ellison was saying ushering them into the nearby living room, maybe a few meters from the doorway. Behind him, Don knew that Colby was staring into the other parts of the house, noting the pictures and fixtures, and Don trusted him to sound the alarm if he saw anything suspicious. Don kept his attention on Ellison, barely even aware of the color of the couch (burgundy) as he sat down. If there was anything important about how Ellison lived, Colby would tell him. Now, it was important to keep his eyes on the man.

"Well, we appreciate any time you are able to give us," Don said, feeling more like a diplomat than a fed as Ellison sat down across from him, a worn coffee table separating them. "We know that this probably isn't a topic you want to revisit." He added, as Colby sat down beside him, making the cushions shift ever so slightly underneath him. After all, Colby hadn't been wrong in bringing up his concerns. Ellison was one of those who gave and gave to the FBI until he had nothing more to give, and while Don could and would respect that, but it didn't mean he would be lenient in getting what he wanted.

The ex-Agent shrugged, an impassive look upon his face. From the photos Don had seen of the man, he was older now, but he could still see determination burning behind Ellison's eyes. The man was a fighter. "It is what it is," Ellison said simply. Then, his eyes found the case file tucked under Colby's arm and he nodded to it, "I see you have my file, so I hope you'll forgive my asking just why you needed to come here."

"Just clearing some things up, Mr. Ellison," Colby said, laying the case file on the table. "You know how these things go. Sometimes we get so preoccupied with putting the bad guy away that our notes make no sense to anyone but us." Colby was saying, flipping through the case file, maybe glancing up at Ellison twice as he spoke. Then, he gave a small smile, "I know I've had a DA or two on my ass because my notes were illegible."

Ellison's expression didn't change much, his face remaining an impassive mask where Don had a sudden temptation to beam at Colby. He didn't, of course, watching for Ellison's every twitch, but he had to give Colby his credit. The man didn't want to be here, but now that he was here he was doing his job admirably. Any doubts Don had about that went out the window as Ellison shifted slightly, as if uncomfortable, mumbling a soft, noncommittal, "Right."

Discomfort. Now, that was something Don was used to. When the FBI showed up at a person's doorstep, the range of emotions they exhibited was more often than not in the negative spectrum. Discomfort, fear, rage, blatant hatred… All of those made sense. But Ellison had looked relieved, noticeably so, which gave Don an automatic question filed away in his head for later use: _who had ex-Agent Ellison been expecting?_

"We're looking for this man," Colby went on, pulling a picture from a sleeve of the file, and held it out to Ellison. Don sat up slightly, not even daring to blink lest he miss something. This was the whole reason they came, the feeling in his gut. His gut said Ellison knew more than he let on, more than he filed officially, maybe even a new name or two. Anything Don could get out of this man would be a victory, and a step towards giving his still shell-shocked family some piece of mind.

Ellison took the photo without any sign of hesitation, interest crossing his face. He studied the picture for maybe a moment, then lowered it, "That's Derek Reese, the suspect in the Andy Goode murder," he said evenly and without any trace of holding back, laying the picture down on the coffee table. Only years as a loathsome fed kept most of the surprise off his face.

"You sure about that name? Derek Reese?" Colby said slowly, pulling a pen out of his pocket and grabbing the picture simultaneously, eyes on Ellison waiting for confirmation before writing anything.

A frown pulled at Ellison's brow and mouth, his confidence faltering somewhat. "Yes, I am," he said, just as slowly as Colby, eyes sliding back and forth between the two sluggishly, as if trying to work something out he didn't quite understand. "Why?"

"Because there's no trace of the name anywhere in the case file," Don spoke up.

The result was instantaneous, almost as if Ellison had been slapped. His eyes widened, he shifted in his chair, he tensioned… All almost unnoticeable, but that was why Don was watching him like a hawk as Colby asked the important questions. "Oh," the man fumbled, as if embarrassed, but the same feeling Don had that told him Ellison was hiding something told him that this was all a big show, albeit a skillful one. "Must've slipped my mind, like Agent Granger said. Or slipped out. You know how those filing guys are."

Don was barely able to get a noncommittal response out before Ellison made a show of checking his watch and profusely apologizing for having to leave after answering only one question. Don managed to get a business card (_Zeira Corporation, very nice_) with a current phone number in case he thought of anything else and watched him squirm as he thanked him for the name. Since Don was sure that Ellison was putting on a show for them, Don put on a show of really thanking him, promising to run the name through everything he could think of just to confirm his suspicions. Then, the door was shut, and he and Colby were on their way back to the SUV. Don kept quiet until they were out of earshot, almost halfway to the car.

"Put a tail on Ellison, not uniforms though. He may not be an agent anymore, but he still knows what to look for," he said softly to Colby, not quite muttering but close to it.

"We're going to want to pull the other file," Colby said right back, again almost a mutter. "Cross reference it with ours, check for patterns…"

Patterns. That single word was enough to make Don cringe and want to smack his palm into his forehead like he was twelve years old again. Patterns meant math and math meant… Of course, they could do it like other agents did, check it themselves, but the other way was more efficient and more… More likely to lead to a conviction. Don sighed, giving in. "I was really hoping to avoid that," ce grumbled, running a hand over his face in exhaustion.

"Charlie going to ream you for lying to your Dad?" Colby asked, making Don feel like they were kids having to admit to a prank, rather than a pair of supposedly hardened FBI agents discussing bringing in a consultant. That was the problem with his family being so close to the cases he worked, one of the more minor ones, but a problem nonetheless.

"Oh, yeah." Don mumbled, scratching the back of his head, digging in his pocket for the keys to the SUV. "Big time."

* * *

John was used to the stares, he'd been the 'new kid' no less than thirty-four times, but this was getting a little ridiculous. He was getting self-conscious, his skin crawling, and they weren't even staring at him!

Was it so much to ask for a normal day?

The object of the gazes of everyone in the Food Court and John's carefully averted eyes was, of course, Cameron. She was wearing a bright pink halter top and a denim mini-skirt, equipped with a low hanging necklace that probably looked more at home on an H&M manikin, and boots that hugged her calves so tightly that he was certain they were cutting off circulation. If she were human, that is… Cameron's lips had been painted a bright shade of red, her hair straightened and hanging over her shoulders, her eyes coated in bright pink eyeliner and mascara, items John was sure he'd never seen his mother touch, let alone wear. So, John was lost on where Cameron had procured these items, nor was he sure why she looked like she was ready to go clubbing in the middle of the day, much less in the middle of a shopping mall food court. What he did know was, there she was, and he would not have been a breathing member of the male race if he didn't acknowledge how good she looked.

Which was exactly the reason why John kept his eyes on his French fries, because a) there was a voice inside his head that sounded suspiciously like his mother which said she was supposed to be his sister and, b) there was a much angrier voice inside his head that sounded suspiciously like his uncle that said she was a metal, not a human.

But, damn. She certainly looked human.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" came a soft voice, in the tone of voice John had unofficially dubbed her 'thoughtful' voice.

"Yes," John said to his fries and bright red burger wrapper. Sarah Connor, the great warrior-mom, had suggested that John go out to lunch, which had been code for 'get the hell out of the house'. John had shrugged indifferently and done just that, intending on getting some fast food and maybe catching a bad action movie to give both his Mom and Derek some time to cool off. He'd just barely set his tray down on the one empty table in the place when Cameron showed up wearing… that. While it was clear she had been sent by Mom, but what was unclear was whether or not the terminator had been seen before she left the house.

"Why?" she asked, and John looked up long enough to see her tilt her head inquisitively to one side before focusing his attention back on the uneaten golden fries. "These clothes are tight," she said, using her favorite expression, picked up from God knows where. "This is a tight color on me," she insisted.

"Yeah," John said, dragging out the sound, trying not to think too hard about what she'd just said. "But, don't you think it's a little… I dunno, inappropriate?" He chanced a glance up to her face, to see her reaction.

She blinked once. "No," she said, looking confused. "It's tight," Cameron insisted again.

"Yeah, it is pretty tight." John said quickly, trying not to sound frustrated. He was all for helping Cameron learn to be more human, but the line had to be drawn somewhere. And he drew his personal line in the sand at telling the terminator that she looked like a… well… Believe it or not, he did have some instincts of self-preservation when it came to females, even the fake ones. "But not in the middle of the day, alright?" John said, feeling the heat rush to his face.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, and John could only imagine what she was storing to memory. At long last, she nodded, jingling the large earrings. He wasn't aware until just then she wore them, or that her ears were even pierced. "I understand," she said, bright blue eyes unblinking on him.

"Good," John muttered, grabbing his medium Coke (which, on this side of Y2K, was a large) and took a sip through the plastic straw, noting with slight disgust that it was a lot more watery than he remembered. How long had they been sitting here?

"Derek also did not approve of my tight outfit."

The thought of what Derek must have said to Cameron made John choke on his soda. John coughed twice, violently enough for Cameron to sit up in alarm, as he dropped his cup on the table. "Really?" He wheezed, eyes watering. Cameron did not react, so John took his leave to clear his throat and compose himself. Once he felt like he could talk without sounding like an avid smoker, John did so. "So, uh," John started eloquently, scratching his head, the short hair still foreign. "What's going on with him?" John asked, trying to sound offhand.

He needn't have bothered. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that the beautiful, frail-looking girl across from him was really an indestructible machine. "Are you inquiring after his health?" she asked, cocking her head to the left.

"Yes. Well, no. Sort of." John fumbled, trying to think on his feet. Everyone in this whole world either saw him as something to protect or murder, so getting his way became a special, complicated task. He wanted to know what was wrong with Derek, what he was doing and why he disappeared sometimes and, sort of asking Derek himself, Cameron was his best bet to figure everything out. Actually, since Derek would probably lie about it anyway, Cameron was his only hope.

It was easier to ignore Cameron's wardrobe choice when he had a purpose, easier still when he had the angry war veteran on his mind. Wait. Why would she expect him to ask about Derek's health? "Why? Is something wrong?" The frantic addition of, 'Did his stitches come out?' was left unsaid, because that would have been paranoid, even after his shoddy job.

"Not that I am aware." Cameron said, about as emotional as always. "He had certainly been in a fight, that much you can see for yourself."

"But with who?" John asked, before he could stop himself. Well, so much for crafting a plan of attack. Best to just wing it, he supposed.

"He would not tell me."

John bit back a sigh. One good thing about Cameron was that she tended to tell the truth, unless the mission required otherwise, and since John could see no reason for her to lie about Derek… He was back to square one. "He told me his run beat him up." John grumbled, hating secrets more and more every second...

"That is impossible."

John's head shot up hopefully at her words. Did this mean she knew-?

"A run cannot beat someone up. It is not capable of that act." Cameron said instead, puncturing his dreams of actually figuring things out before he'd really gotten them up. Damn. He'd gotten nowhere again and blew possibly his one chance to find out just what was going on here. Guess he would have to wait until it all blew up in their faces like it always did… Or he could ambush Cameron later and hope for a better result.

John sighed again, sitting back in his chair, rubbing his left temple with two fingers, as he tried to mentally prepare himself to explain personification to a scantily clad terminator.

* * *

After staring mindlessly at the television for the past three and a half hours, waiting futilely for sleep to come and claim him, Derek Reese had come to the conclusion that his life would make a much more interesting soap opera than any daytime television program.

His little brother had come back in time to fall in love with and impregnate a woman before he was technically even born to protect her and the unborn child he didn't know he had from robots from the future. The woman, Sarah Connor, would in turn give birth to the savior of mankind, John who would also send Derek Reese back, his uncle, who would join up with them after the safe house failed. Connor, whowas the orchestrator of all this mayhem in direct conjunction with Skynet, the evil computer program from the future, whose lives seemed to be devoted to destroying any semblance of a hold Derek had on reality and making him question every decision he'd ever made in his life, not to mention the nature of time itself. If that didn't beat dumb blond and wanna-be hip-hop kid, then Derek didn't want to know what would. Oh, and they also had a terminator who dressed like a whore.

If the metals didn't kill him, then suburbia certainly would.

Giving up on ever falling asleep and unable to endure any more melodrama, Derek threw the blanket off him, trying his best not to wince as the cold air hit him. He didn't move at first, allowing himself a few more seconds under the delusion that he could actually fall asleep and to prolong the feeling of almost-comfortable numbness he'd fallen into, knowing that the second he moved, all the new wounds he procured would return in full force the second he moved. Maybe he could…

_"The only way to get over a girl is to get a new girl."_

_"Hell to the YES!"_

The sheer motion and amount of effort it took to turn his head, grab the remote and slam the mute button was enough to send waves of pain through his right arm. Derek froze, finger hovering over the power button, arm extended over the coffee table, waiting either for the fire in his arm to die down to that of an ember or, at least, until he could no longer count the individual stitches through the feeling alone.

His patience ran dry long before that happened. Trying his best not to think about what he was doing, instead focusing on thinking nothing, Derek grabbed the back of the couch with his left hand, swinging his legs off the edge and pulled himself up into a sitting position. The blanket he'd unceremoniously tossed over the back cushions made his grip slippery at best, but somehow, he managed to pry himself into a sitting position, one that would shame any man who dared to call himself a soldier, but a sitting position nevertheless. Still concentrating on thinking about nothing and failing admirably in that respect, Derek allowed himself a moment of rest before using the back of the couch again to stand.

The first wave of nausea hit him so hard he collapsed, right back into a sitting position. The only reason why he didn't just fall right over and collapse right back onto the inviting pillow was the hand that shot out to support him. His left hand. Which was, unfortunately, attached to his left forearm.

"Mother of—" Derek hissed between clenched teeth, yanking his left arm away from the compromising position as soon as the knowledge that it was a bad idea to support himself with an arm that had a four inch long gash, but the damage had been done. And the second he started thinking about the fact that someone had just lit his forearm on fire opened up the other parts of him that he'd been ignoring so spectacularly for the past three and a half hours.

His entire midsection felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, which was about accurate. After all, it wasn't long—how many hours ago?—since that bastard had hit him with a baseball bat. The same bat may as well have slammed into his forehead for how it pounded for attention, but Derek Reese had pulled enough terrified all nighters to know what a lack of sleep did to him. Then there was, of course, his forearm, which was the worst of the wounds, as far as Derek was concerned. Anything that restricted his usefulness in a fight also restricted his ability to protect John Connor if the time came. And, judging by how that boy flirted with danger and his ill-advised attempts to domesticate every killing machine that batted their eyelids at him, was fast in coming and Derek was no where near combat ready.

'_Quit feeling sorry for yourself, soldier,' _came a voice from inside his head that sounded suspiciously like a cross between his CO and Sarah Connor. _'Shake it off.'_

"Yeah," he growled, glaring down at his arm, silently daring the bandages to start seeping red. He would not allow his stitches to be ripped over such a stupid, rookie mistake. If he'd ripped them over changing the license plates, that would have been perfectly acceptable. But not this. "Easier said than done."

There was a blond girl on screen, thankfully silent, pink lips moving excitedly around some nonsense, a giant smile plastered on her faux-tanned features, utilizing her perfectly white teeth and salon crafted locks. Derek had no idea where she was, what she was doing or who she was, but he hated her. She was probably some innocent thing, never seen anything of the world outside Hollywood, but hating her gave Derek a channel away from his pain. So, he took hold of it, cataloguing all her flaws rather than his injuries. She was useless. What help would her stick figure be when Judgment Day came? She'd only starve faster while looking for her fake nails and lashes, while spending about a year and a half on her makeup. But, there she was. Standing, smiling, laughing, oblivious to everything. She probably bitched to some poor assistant about the contents of her trailer and how her M&Ms were touching or some nonsense. How could anyone survive living like—

The large window-door to his left slammed open, and Derek could make out a figure around the barrel of the gun he didn't register picking up, much less cocking and aiming. Training kicked in, knocking out most of his concerns about his physical well being, though he didn't stand just yet. Derek narrowed his eyes, focusing past the barrel to see just who—no… It couldn't be, it didn't make any—

"Oh, sorry," the bald black man said, raising his hands slowly, just the tiniest hint of a shake in them. "I, uh, I didn't think. About, uh, the door. Just was… in a hurry."

Hardly daring to believe it, Derek stood slowly, albeit a little shakily, careful to keep his gun on the man. "Ellison?"

* * *

**A/N:**

_Okay, first off, let me apologize for the wait. Life hit me over the head with a sledgehammer, so I was a little distracted. Also, let me add that I will explain everything in time and that I do have a plan. Again, sorry for the wait. I will try my hardest to make the wait shorter next time. _


	5. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: **

**Numb3rs **_is created and owned by_ **CBS** _and relevant parties. _**Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (T:SCC) **_is owned by _**FOX** _and relevant affiliates. I, the author, make no claim that these franchises are owned by me, nor am I making any profit from this. This story is written using characters and universes from these two creations, and is meant only for fun. _

* * *

Derek had parked the car probably eight more blocks away than he really needed to, but damn if he had just replaced both those license plates only to have to go back and replace them again tonight. No matter what else went down, that was not happening. The window was still blown out, but Derek had parked too close to a wall for it to be of any use to a wannabe car thief. Walking along the not-so-busy streets had given him time to think, anyway, for all the good it was doing him.

_"You've opened up a federal investigation on yourself. You killed a man in a federal agent's house; I'm assuming that was you, right? Or did someone else pound your face against the asphalt?" _

Maybe he was an idiot for letting Ellison go and, yeah, maybe he was an idiot for starting this whole thing like he did. Sarah wouldn't be happy if she ever found out about what he was doing, about what he'd done. Sarah was never one for the dirty work, always handing that off to him or the machine with the hopes that she'd never have to hear about it and acted all high and mighty when she finally did. This had to happen; he had to know what they knew. She wouldn't be happy, sure, but when had Sarah ever been happy with him? It would be simple to ask John to try and hack something, or have the machine do something, but this… this was his mess and he needed to deal with it on his own, and maybe Derek wasn't thinking logically snooping around like this and maybe there'd be nothing there anyway, but hell. Better him than the machine. No one would die his way. Well, nobody but him.

_"How the hell did you find this place, anyhow?"_

He wouldn't get anyone but himself killed this way, as opposed to the machine's way, which would probably suit everyone just fine anyway and free up a spot on the couch. Sure, John wouldn't be happy, but the kid needed to learn to deal with death sometime, rather than just running from it, cowering behind his mother whenever the subject was broached. The machine could cross him off its threat list, if it even considered him one in the first place. And Sarah… Well, Sarah would get over it. Didn't like him anyhow. The nicest Sarah had ever been to him was back when he was shot. Baked him pancakes, held his hand, told him everything was going to be alright. Sweet, but it was all a lie. She hated him for what he reminded her of and was too hard to admit it, passing it off as his fault, his burdens, his prejudice, his shortcomings. There was only room for one Reese in her heart and it wasn't him, which suited him just fine. He wasn't looking to be coddled, wasn't looking for handouts or comfort. His world ended long ago. He didn't need Sarah Connor or her approval.

_"It was simple enough. Sarah's used this alias to talk to you in prison. Sarah Baum. Well, Linda Baum. Figured it was a good place to start. And you aren't going to kill me, Derek Reese, no matter what you are planning inside your head right now." _

His reflexes were getting slow and that wasn't good. Every moment he spent back here was a moment he wasn't in constant combat, and that meant he was losing his edge. In a way, he almost envied the machines. They never lost their edge. They just kept coming and coming and coming. He should have shot Ellison in the head when he burst in the door, but no. His mind caught up with his body, allowed for a moment of shock and recognition that was going to get him killed one day. Derek needed to lose that shock, and fast. Needed to shoot something, needed to be shot at, needed to be on edge. Maybe that accounted for what he was doing now, sheer stupidity outweighed by his need to get back in the game

_"Oh, yeah? Then give me something I can work with. Just who is after me?" _

So, Derek would snoop and by doing so put himself in considerable risk that would get his blood going and hopefully kick his ass in just the right way to get him back on track, so he might actually pass for useful. If he got caught or killed, it served him right for being the bastard who brought this down on the Connors.

Yeah, so he probably was an idiot. But he had made his decision and he was going through with it, end of story. He would not be looking over his shoulder, he would not go to the machine for help. A distracted soldier was a dead soldier.

_"Ellison?"_

As he neared the building, alight with hope and beliefs that their system would stand through the next hundred years, Derek could hear Ellison sigh inside his mind, hear the short, clipped words lined with resignation and self-loathing, bringing to light another reason why Derek was doing this alone. If it was a set up, he wouldn't have to worry about anyone but himself. Casually, Derek reached behind his back, checking with expert fingers his weapon tucked into his waistband, before flipping his shirt back over it. Confident, Derek continued down the darkening streets of Los Angeles as Ellison's resigned voice sounded in his mind.

_"Don Eppes. The man leading the investigation is Don Eppes."_

Derek Reese was on the hunt.

* * *

Don knew that look and that look did not bode well for him. It had been easy to get Charlie down here, as it had been a relatively unsuspicious venture to pry the good professor away from his coursework and get him into the federal building. It happened so often that Don knew he should be more perturbed by it, but Charlie's presence was becoming that of almost any other agent, a part of the team. Even Larry and Amita, the sometimes helpers, had proven themselves of deserving their own honorary desks set up in the corner. No, the hard part wasn't getting Charlie to actually enter the building. The hard part proved to be getting Charlie to actually take this specific case.

"Look," Don finally said, exasperated with the whole process of explaining himself, "I get it. I lied. You're not happy, Dad won't be happy and it was stupid of me. Okay? Would you please look at it?"

Charlie fixed him with what Don hoped to be the last of the disapproving glares for the afternoon and let out a small sigh, plucking the top off the box that sat upon Don's desk.

Don allowed himself the smallest of smiles over this victory. "Thank you," Don said, keeping most of the smug satisfaction out of his voice to hopefully avoid another speech about morality or whatever Charlie had been droning on about. Don, frankly, had zoned out during much of it. It must have worked because Charlie sat down in his brother's chair, plucked out the topmost file from the box and opened the file in his lap. Not one to hover, Don glanced around the room for something to do while Charlie read and found his answer in two bent heads behind a glass wall. "Hey, you read and I'll be back," Don said, earning a noncommittal grunt in response, the curly haired head already bent over the file.

Even though he wasn't one to hover, Don had to stop himself from grabbing the box and checking for the fifth time that he'd removed one tiny tidbit. The police station massacre in '85 and the fact that twelve federal agents were murdered not too long ago was still there, tucked away, as it was too big to be ignored and would probably throw the calculations off, but there were no pictures. The last thing Charlie needed to see were bullet-ridden bodies floating in a red-stained pool or cops laying in pools of their own blood and Don didn't need Charlie so preoccupied with that one fact that he couldn't do his job. Don would protect Charlie; there was no way that he would let anything of the sort touch him, so there was no reason to include more than was necessary. He was looking for Charlie's help, not a case to scare him off helping forever.

Was it petty of him to hope that Charlie stumbled across that bit of data after Don wasn't in the general vicinity?

"How's it going?" Don asked, entering the meeting room. Of the two agents occupying space, only one looked up, as David was evidently too engrossed in frowning at his notes to acknowledge his boss. The meeting room looked about as cluttered as it usually did in the middle of a case, almost like a filing cabinet threw up.

"Just got results from the lab," Colby said, giving a nod towards Don in greeting. "With the name, we pulled the Andy Goode file. Prints match Derek Reese and we've got his prints all over your kitchen and the safe house."

"What, from the triple homicide?" Colby nodded an affirmative. Don sighed, running a hand through his hair. "And we didn't have this connected before because-?" Honestly, this case was going to give him an ulcer before it was done.

"Don this guy's file is a mess," Colby said, gesturing towards the handwritten notes before him. Don had a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue, still feeling the innate desire to tear Ellison a new one. But Colby's face was lined with exhaustion, his eyes just a tad unfocused, which was more than enough to make Don back off for the moment with being a smart-ass. "Towards the end of his career, it's just like Ellison stopped taking notes altogether. Case in point," he continued, shoving files and papers around until he found the specific bit of paper he needed. "Ah, here. There's a little note in the margin, here," Don leaned over, squinting a bit to read the tiny cursive letters, "A p_rosthetic hand_, followed by a question mark, scribbled in the margin like an after thought. There's no mention of it again, Don."

"We sure about that?" Don asked. He wasn't sure what significance it could possibly have, but if it was in the case file, if Ellison took the time to scribble it in the margin, then Don wanted to know everything about it, even if it made him and his team insane to actually get a hold of it. Don knew that Ellison was working this case alone and that his career ended rather abruptly, but there was no excuse for this. Then again, it may not have been the guy's fault. Contradicting witness statements, mental patients, impossible police reports from before Ellison's time… The sooner Don found this Derek Reese and subsequently buried the Connor case, the better. Cases that went on too long tended to take too many agents with them.

"Yes," David grunted from across the room. By the time Don looked up, the man was slouched over the table, rubbing his eyes with his palms, looking just as exhausted as Colby. Don could sympathize. After two straight hours of reading, words started to blur together. Not to mention that it was Sunday, their day of rest, and none of them were really supposed to be there. "No mention of it ever again. I've read through everything twice."

"What'd you give Charlie?" Colby asked, nodding in the general direction of the mathematician. Don looked up to see Charlie giving the single file one of his classic frowns, his brain no doubt moving across numbers and words Don wouldn't understand at a mile a minute.

"Copies of everything," Don replied, "I'm hoping he puts something together we didn't. Pretty much I'm letting him pick what he thinks he can tackle and then letting him go for it."

Colby and David exchanged a glance behind his back, probably forgetting that he could see their every move in the reflection in the glass. As Don pretended not to watch, the two grown men had a silent argument full of hand gestures and motions at Don's back. Colby must have won the silent argument, because it was David who said, "What, everything, everything?"

"Yeah," Don sighed, scratching the back of his neck. "Might throw off a calculation not to," he explained, glancing back at the two, before looking back at Charlie, "Took out the pictures, though, and the autopsy reports, everything but a date and time."

"So, what, twelve agents death's just becomes scribbled unimportantly in the margin, Don?" Colby wanted to know. Even though his voice was even, Don didn't miss the contempt behind those words. Colby was nothing if not compassionate; of course he'd see the missing pictures as a perceived slight against the dead and not a measure to protect Charlie. After all, Charlie'd seen bodies before and it probably wouldn't even enter their minds to keep these from him. That was why he kept his brother as solely his jurisdiction.

"It's not unimportant, you know that," Don was fairly impressed at his own control. Yes, the words were hard, but they weren't snapped. Yes, he was glaring at Colby, but with hardly any venom. They weren't Charlie's brother and while Don was positive any one of them would rip the heads off anyone who dared go near him, they would never be too good at the older brother thing. That was Don's job. "But my brother doesn't need to see those pictures. Don't need him so preoccupied with one set of events that he can't see the whole."

"And, uh, what's the whole, Don?" David asked, after another not-so-covert glance at Colby.

"The whole is that over thirty law enforcement officers are dead, there are more murders than I care to count and this case has been open for more than twenty years. Past time to close it, those men and women deserve justice. I'm not going to sit back and allow this to go on for any longer, not just because my father's house is a crime scene but for everyone else too." Then, because Don could feel the question he dreaded most in the world coming, he added, "Tell me when you get something else," and fled.

Well, not fled. More like left in a rather quick manner without a specific goal in mind for the express purpose of… Okay, so maybe he fled, but he wasn't going to weather that question. No way. Not so long as he could avoid it.

Thankfully, Nikki was close by to act as a convenient scapegoat for his hasty departure.

"I've been going over the Reese file," Nikki said, before Don could ask. "'Course, it's not what they call it. Guy's a John Doe so far as the file's concerned."

"Which Reese file is this? Kyle Reese or the Andy Goode murder?" Don asked, sitting on the corner of her desk. He allowed himself a small feeling of satisfaction when she fixed him with a glare that clearly said he would have been reprimanded if he wasn't her boss. Don scooted back a bit so he occupied more of the desk.

"The escape from federal custody," she answered. To her credit, she did keep most of the irritation out of her voice, passing for only mildly irritated. "Or, rather, the attack that freed Derek Reese. Both officers claim they were overpowered by two women, approximately 5'6" and 120 pounds apiece, who then took the prisoner. Now, this isn't in here, but they match the descriptions for Sarah Connor and Cameron Phillips."

"Yeah, David and Colby said the notes got pretty nonexistent towards the end," Don muttered, leaning over to read the official report over her shoulder.

Because she was probably concerned that he was going to fall off the desk and land on her, Nikki sighed and dropped the file into his hands. "Don, none of this was even with the Connor stuff, even though it's pretty clearly connected." Nikki said, once the danger had passed and Don was slouched in a direction away from her. "The Andy Goode file was barely a mention there, anything after Sarah Connor's alleged death is in complete shambles and all the murders with the strange blood connecting them were the same way. Ellison's pretty clean cut, though, and I just don't see how he got so mixed up in this. And I don't quite see Connor getting enough money to bribe him…"

"We just have to fill in the blanks," Don said, handing the file back. "The file's proving pretty unhelpful in that arena." She nodded as he reached up to run a hand over his face, trying to latch his tired brain onto the next move. Exhaust the old case, move on to the new. "We get anything on our dead John Doe yet?"

"Just that he's a John Doe," Nikki said with a shrug. "Database came back with nothing. Dental records were a no go too, even though he's clearly had work done at some point in the last twenty years. Only match we got there was some kid, so clearly the computer's having issues again. Pulled the security footage from the light, both vehicles were stolen so no joy there, but we can confirm that our John Doe was shot at and fled from the light."

"And was it Reese in the car?" Don asked, even though he was pretty sure he knew the answer already. Of the many first rules he'd learned when he joined the FBI, his favorite first rule was, especially with this job, never to assume anything because the second you did, the case liked to throw you a curveball just to keep you on your toes. Best to attempt to circumnavigate the curveballs and assume nothing, hope for an easy case. No luck with this one, but habits broke hard.

"David and Colby got a copy in the meeting room if you want to see for yourself," Nikki said, jerking her head in the general direction of the two who were probably still scheming of ways to corner him and ask the damned question.

Don barely suppressed a shudder. "On second thought, who else could it be? I should probably check on Charlie," he offered by way of excuse, sliding off her desk before _she_ could think of asking him what Colby and David wanted to. With luck, she ought to buy it as a valid excuse…

To his dismay, she let out a little chuckle instead of going back to her work. "Oh, I see," she said, unhelpfully, "the big bad Don Eppes avoiding something?"

"Yes," he grumbled, trying and failing to remind himself that he was her superior and thus unable to feel ashamed of anything around her. "I don't need everyone breathing down my neck just because my family's linked to this case. Just do your jobs, and I'll do mine. End of story."

"Oh, c'mon boss. It's just a little concern," she explained, in a way that was still surprisingly unhelpful with that grin on her face, "I mean, everyone wants to catch this guy and close the case, but you've got this look in your eye, probably because of said connection, and no one wants to see you turn into a Ballard."

All of Don's questions were negated by a reference that the newbie had no right to know yet. "Ballard?"

"Ex-Agent Paul Ballard," she started, talking slowly like Charlie had a tendency to when Don didn't understand some math talk, in a way that made him positive that she thought he was all kinds of stupid, "Got so wrapped up in a case that he—"

"No, I know the man," Don interrupted, before she could relate the story in some kind of metaphor that tied him to Ballard, "but how do you know that story?"

Nikki treated him to another grin that did nothing helpful. "That one made it all the way down the grapevine." Don resisted the urge to again smack himself in the forehead. Great, so if that one made it all the way down to the LAPD, then who else knew about it? Hell, if the press got a hold of it, there would be a circus. Just about to pull the boss card and edge away, Don stopped when Nikki's face grew serious. "David and Colby are just worried, boss," she said quietly.

"Well, tell them to quit it," Don said, glancing over at his desk to check on Charlie. "My father and brother are worried enough for all of L.A." With that, Don left Nikki to it, not at all liking the look on Charlie's face. The one he had before plainly told Don that he was in some serious trouble but this one... This one was a different kind of trouble.

"Well?" Don asked, without preamble, coming to a halt before his brother.

"Twelve federal agents, Don?" Charlie asked without looking up, eyes fixed on one particular line of text. "Twelve, allegedly killed by one man while in full riot gear." It was here that Charlie looked up at his big brother, eyes shining with something that Don didn't recognize. "Twelve? And then this one, right here-" Again, Charlie looked down so he could jab his finger at just the right line of text, "—sixteen cops? Sixteen, Don, by one man?" Now Don recognized that look. Fear.

"We aren't taking any chance with this one, Chuck." Don said seriously, making sure to look Charlie in the eye. "Riot gear, back up, S.W.A.T., no chances. We will be careful."

Charlie didn't snap at him about the dangers clearly associated with this case, like Don half expected him to, but instead let out a small sigh, running a hand over his face. "How has a terrorism case with this many bodies stayed open this long?" Charlie asked, glancing at the large box to his left then up at his brother.

"I wish I had an answer for you, buddy, I really do," Don said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Colby dug up something that said it was haunted..."

Charlie snorted. "Haunted?" The mathematician shook his head as he stood, dropping the file back into the box and grabbing the lid from it's place on Don's keyboard. "I'll go over this stuff at Cal-Sci and get you something as quick as I can. I-"

"Whoa, buddy, wait." Don said, reaching out and putting a hand on the box before Charlie could pick it up. "You're not going back to Cal-Sci. I've cleared one of the rooms for you, you're more than welcome to work there. Call Larry, Amita, whoever, but they come here, you understand?" Don made sure that he looked Charlie in the eye as he spoke, because there would be absolutely no deviance from this, no arguments and no way in hell Charlie was working anywhere but under this roof.

"What?" Charlie managed to get out, his confusion apparent on his face. "Why?"

"A man was killed in your house," At Don's words, Charlie gave the smallest of flinches, looking away from Don long enough to lean against Don's desk. "There's no guarentee you and Dad weren't the target," Charlie opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but Don wasn't done, "It's not likely given what little evidence we have, but I can't take that risk. The Connors and this Reese are terrorists, through and through and when I said I'm not taking chances, I meant it. I've got an unmarked car at my apartment and following Dad around and if you do work this case, I want you here, with as many feds between you and them as possible."

Charlie's face was whiter than it should have been, but no where near as white as Don was expecting. "Why... Why would somebody want to kill me?" Charlie asked, looking up at Don again, in such a way that made Don feel like they were kids again. "Or Dad? It doesn't make sense..."

"I don't know, Charlie. Your work with other agencies, at Cal Sci, with me... Sarah Connor murdered a man for writing a computer program. She's insane, they're insane, but there's got to be a reason to the madness, that's why I need you." After a moment's hesitation, Don put a hand on his brother's shoulder, a comforting gesture that was awkward even after all this time together. Sometimes, Don wondered what damage their relationship had taken was irreversible. "Quicker I close this case, the quicker I can remove the crime scene tape from around your house," Don offered, with a tiny smile.

To his surprise and Charlie's everlasting credit, he got one back. It was laden with concern, but it was a smile nonetheless. "Don, are you-" Charlie started, but Don refused to let him continue.

"If you ask if I'm alright, I'm going to have to slug you," he said quickly, before Charlie could even think about finishing the question. Hell, he thought Charlie would understand, wouldn't even think to ask... The man hated the question just about as much as Don did.

Charlie's smile widened a fraction. "I was going to say, before I was rudely interrupted, that you better not have those funky smelling markers still," the mathematician said, straightening and grabbing the box of files. "They give me the biggest headache."

* * *

It was dark by the time Alan got back (a fact he blamed on a lack of knowledge of traffic patterns around Don's apartment complex, and not his need to go to the good store, about forty minutes out of the way without traffic) with two paper bag fulls of groceries in arm. His sons would probably have criticized him for that, especially the eldest, but since Charlie had already called to say he'd be working late with Don, no one would have to know that his trip took longer than expected. Besides, he was a grown man and was free to spend his time as he pleased, thank you very much, even if it meant sitting in two hours of traffic each way.

Really, it would be a miracle if the milk hadn't spoiled.

The lobby area of Don's building was empty so there was no one to criticize when he bypassed the elevators and headed right for the stairs. He wasn't so old and crippled yet that he couldn't walk up one flight of stairs with two bags of groceries. Besides, as he constantly reminded his children when they were young, it wouldn't kill them to be active once and a while. Now to find them…

It took a moment to actually locate the door, hidden between two large potted plants in bloom, tucked away in some unimportant corner. _It just encourages laziness, _Alan thought, turning around to push the door open with his back. _To hide the stairs. Really, I know people avoid the stairs like the plague, but that's no reason to hide them away! _Alan was so caught up in his internal rant that he almost tripped when the door stopped abruptly, caught on something. Startled, Alan looked up, into the equally startled face of the man he'd nearly run over with the heavy door. "Oh," Alan said, turning to brace his shoulder on the heavy door. The scruffy looking man had managed to catch the door in one hand and slowly relaxed his hold on it, blue eyes looking him up and down carefully. Alan wasn't sure what kind of expression the man wore, but he looked like a deer in the headlights. "Sorry."

After a moment, the man shrugged and continued on his way without a word, taking them two at a time. Alan followed at a considerably slower rate, slow enough to appreciate the scenery, which was considerably lacking. Taking the stairs wouldn't kill you, but the unpainted concrete décor could certainly fool yo—

Alan's foot slipped on the second step, and the groceries went flying as he fought to steady himself. Heart pounding, Alan finally managed to steady himself with both hands clutched tightly around the handrail. Breathing heavily, Alan looked down, finding his tediously packed groceries strung over the concrete floor, over the three steps and ground floor. Luckily, nothing appeared broken, but he didn't move just yet, afraid that the slightest movement of his foot would crush something.

Alan ran a hand over his face, letting out the smallest of sighs. Silently invoking the patience of a being more powerful than himself, Alan looked skywards, but halfway there he met the sharp blue eyes of the stranger he'd almost ran over with the door. From the angle, the man was on his way up to the second floor landing, moving considerably faster than the eldest Eppes. The man looked ready to bolt, truth be told, not that Alan blamed him. The sound he'd just made with the groceries couldn't have been the most pleasant thing, pretty easy to startle someone who wasn't watching. Heck, Alan was startled and he'd been the first party to the action.

Slowly, as if he was expecting an attack, the man moved back down the stairs, sharp blue eyes scanning the area and giving him a once over. Kind of reminded him of the look Don had this morning, back at the Craftsman: ready for anything and everything. "Oh, I'm fine," Alan assured the young man, "Rethinking my choice to take the stairs, though," he added, glancing down at the war zone below, "Just tripped, but I'm okay, thanks."

Alan fully expected the nice young man who needed a shave to nod and continue on his way. But the man surprised him by saying, "Here, let me help you," after a moment of what looked like intense thought. Before Alan could protest or even thank him, the man had already bent and grabbed the mostly intact paper bag and begun repacking. Alan scrambled to grab the other bag before this young man could do all the work, but the bag fell apart in his hands, ripped down the middle. In the end, all Alan managed to grab was a box of cereal and the bananas, while the nice young man managed to pack two bags worth into the one in record time, much faster than the kid at the store had.

Alan stood, feeling like an idiot with his small burden. "Thanks," he said, holding his hand out to take the bag.

"No problem," the man said, ignoring the outstretched hand. He hadn't noticed it before, but the man had quite the bruise forming around his left cheekbone and Alan couldn't suppress the feeling of fatherly worry that suddenly welled up inside him, but Alan said nothing of it. Not yet, anyway. He would probably inquire after the man's health after he returned his groceries. The nice younger man gave Alan a small, polite, almost unsure smile before saying, "I'd hate for you to trip again. You might hurt yourself or you might drop them again and I really don't want to repack them."

If one of his sons had said that, Alan might have forcibly refused and grabbed the groceries anyway, arguing that he wasn't so old yet, thank you very much. But this was a polite young man and those were so hard to come by these days… "Thanks for that," Alan finally said, returning the smile. "We're just going to the second floor. I figured the stairs would be healthier, but there you go," Alan juggled his ridiculous burden until he was able to hold out a hand to the man. Whoever he was, his parents raised him right. "Alan Eppes."

After a moment, the man took it with a heavily calloused hand, "Derek."

* * *

**A/N: **

_Well, then... It's been a while. I won't prattle on with excuses because you deserve better than that and I'm fairly certain no one who is reading this story cares to know what has happened in my life to prevent me from writing. Long story short, I started college. I apologize for the wait and would like to thank all the reviewers I haven't thanked individually for your enthusiasm. No, I have not abandoned this story and have no intention to at this point, but it may take a little while to crank out._

_And... Yes, sorry about the __Dollhouse reference, but I couldn't resist. As that show is also going off the air, I felt I needed a little tribute to it._


End file.
